By a day's difference, and a night's
indifference...angelic flight looses
evasion what was embrace.
The repose of memory blighted by
forgetfulness...seven constitutions
ago that personified the goodly
week of creation.
Incontinent, now...to All Things
small that were big.
Admonished whole by the changeable--
thou fairest...unwell.
Supping thy chinny chin chin--with
world-wearied, and wearying palms...
overgrow The Garden in hopes it may
obscure The Fall.

Civilized life is rigged, O land-dwellers!
With landmines hidden
in trails of Society's doctrine,
'Too often is it stepped on,
Too often does it explode.'
Blowing constitutions to smithereens,
Where you then rummage within your nucleus
to piece together your scattered jigsaw,
Misplacing your natural elements,
Overcasting your ability to side with beauteous aspects in simplicity—
Of those ethereal-resplendent butterflies.
Disillusioned on land thus is you (the complex you).

Let go—
Rise above your materialistic graves—
Walk on air!
My kindred wisps
Walk on air!

Used to have nightmares all the time, used to see demons in real life.
Used to think I had infinite time, used to be held back by strife.
Uh, elder made me a dream catcher when was young,
when my parents were too busy drowning in the ***,
so I admired the gangs who taught me how to hold a gun.
They told me guns was our only power, our only resistance, because reality is twisted and white man never going to give us
any **** assistance.

(Intro) How do I want to define my existence? How do I achieve My dreams? How can I love others when they scared of me and keep their distance from me? What’s the point of climbing the mountain when God struck me down before I was even half way up? How can I get over addictions when everyone else already gave up on me and won’t lift me up?

Climbing this myth, this illusion, this delusion,
trying to change but how can I?
When my people were put through crucifixion?
My mushim and kokum taught me the way of our people,
but looking back at it now I think I failed my people.

Learned different lessons like yin and yang from friends,
but it’s too late the balance is broken...
this is how our people’s story ends.
That’s just how I feel and with no home I can call my own.
So, I sleep on the streets with a bottle of patron.
Water was supposed to cleanse me, and fire was supposed to warm me, but this fire water is going to be the end of me.
When the colonists came they seemed so sweet like Juliet, but it was all a trick, got poisoned and it was revealed that Juliet was really Brutus to our Julius.
We trusted ****** and look where it got us,
we trusted the church and they molested us.
We trusted the education system,
but they beat us and told us our beliefs and cultures were blasphemous.

They spread their diseases to us, they extended court dates,
so we couldn’t defend ourselves or get reconciliation,
from past callous deeds that were pretty heinous.
Jesus save us, oh wait you brought them to us!
Pride was turned to shame, courage was turned to insecurity, yeah so much for diversity!

The ***** problem, the white man’s burden,
but we are told to just get over it and keep this **** hidden.
So yeah, my dreams and visions of becoming more is no more than an illusion.

Cultures collide and bring forth rigged constitutions.
So, a society develops assumptions and misconceptions,
and it didn’t help that my ancestors had to wait till 1960 to vote in pointless elections.

Elections to decide the next white privileged man to take power,
power that turns good man evil.
Most don’t see or want to see the levels of this status quo devil woe’s, **** ridden covert racist codes.
So, if reality is a nightmare on elm street I’d rather live life short and die quick, and kick the Lord off his high seat.
****, looks like this dream catcher turned out to be Charlotte's web.
Oh, the irony of this misdirect, I thought the dream-catcher was supposed to protect!

But I see know that when you throw out the ***** bath water you also got to throw out the crib!
So now you can see why I can’t get ahead, because white society set up an invisible blockade.
So, sorry if perpetuating the cycle is wrong,
but might as well take my token Indian status and put it into a broken arcade.
For this mountain I’ve been climbing was really a cliff all along,
and society made it pretty clear that I don't belong.
So, I have no choice but to sing my Farewell song.
For the time of the Indian is dead and gone!

The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,

or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,

or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******  

as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.

Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.

or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments

from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.

Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.

“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.

Evil & crime so predictable & stale.
Stupid how arrested suspects get bail.
Convicted when their victims tell.
Prison is where some stay & are jailed.
They have to communicate by mail.
Sometimes their focus goes in another direction.
Where probation happens after correction.

Child & spousal abuse, drug use, & rehab that is no use.
History repeats
Wives & children still get beat.

Their isn't always a Superman or Batman to be your hero.
With a sword or crossbow.

Details of armed robbery , drug dealing & smuggling.
Stabbings & muggings.
On the inside homosexual love with cuddling.
Human trafficking & prostitution.
Violating amendments & constitutions.

They are how they are from how they were raised.
If their victims could speak from the grave
Or had they been saved.
They could explain & describe how their rapists & killers behaved.

Male & females do their time.
Years in custody for their crimes.
Seriousness of their offenses vary.
Some educate, get jobs, or marry.
Behind bars is where violence belongs.
To be punished for all that they did wrong.

Some from death row are now dead.
Similar to the wildlife in a zoo behind bars they get fed.

By Joseph Childress

“Habeus corpus!!!”
Yelled in court
From some youngin’
In the back row
As he rose
With a roll of parchment
The constitution laid dead in his hold
.
A gleam seen in the judge’s eyes
As he glances, quickly
Behind glasses
While guards escort
The disrupter of courts
To the unknown
.

All hail the corpse of freedom!
Warranted from the lack of warnings
All hell: The corporate companies cooperating
In coup d’etats
Disguised as peace keepings
Offering the
Sacrificial kings of Africa
Offing the
Head of state
In a distasteful display of feardom

Fear dominates
The war on terrorism
Military minions pillage the dominions
Of the defenseless

The final blow
Screams
Like the Final Call
In the falling of an empire

Protesters test the unrest
And spread
Words
That are read
In the weaving of our future

Detention
Sit-ins for those who
Speak during class warfare

Constitutions re-written
To constitute illegal imprisonment
Of free
Speakers,
Thinkers,
And believers

Citizens find it harder
To not pay attention
When the war in the Middle East
Is fought in America

Patriotic Acts to enact
Unpatriotic actions
That exact
Hate on the coward-less fraction
Surveillanced
As if ***-kissing will ever be in option

They’re warning us
To stay sleep with the rest
Those who awake
Will meet a force
Worse
Than the crusades
As they raid the houses
Of our brothers, sisters, and
Controversial, conspiracy contriving cousins

They will come
Like thieves in the night
To undue
The debt due to society

The battle begins,
And the Martyrs are ready.

Things blow up
People throw up
And then walk on
A land mine
When they talk on
A landline

I try to enjoy myself
But enjoyment has stealth
And eludes
Which secludes
Happiness hides
Behind sentinel shrapnel
That makes us abide
The rules of this flat Hell

There are frequent explosions in my mind
They are sequenced implosions through time
I have poor explanations
For my inflammations
My hands fumble
My brain crumbles
Progress is lost
That's the cost

Frustration cooks
From holy books
And constitutions
That can't be changed
Or rearranged
So we're gridlocked in an explosion
In Hell's fruitless fire we are frozen

Explosions dot the planet like acne
Humanity has no choice except to get older
Sharing information is our main asset yet we grow colder
We must evolve together
We're doomed to be tethered
So we must gel
To avoid Hell
There are monsters in our midst
In our mind is where they sit
We must expel them together
Or we'll be exploding forever

I am on the front of a beach, a seas exit or entrance.
There was a feeling of superficiality in my vision, and my conception.
The waves, **! The keepers of the fleeting see on the soon-to-be-night tide.
They were so subtle as to loosen me in placidity, a melting hypnosis of crashes and slides. Thus was the nature of my moment with god. I was thus, thus was thus, thus was truth, god was truth, and the moment was god.

And oh, what a season, of fire and explosions, of the heat of summer and the love of the summers warmth, in the night that blew a silver wind in the moonlight, and the days that would either burn your skin, or tan it, depending upon constitutions. And depending upon the angle of the eyes, one could see the beauty of either the blades of grass, where there is no single blade, or the golden-sun dusk that was the most beautiful red, orange, blue, violet, becoming deeper as every memory of the day passes with the sun for new memories to take their place. And I will sit and wonder at the new sky, the freckled face of the drawn beauty, made demure, made to endure, though the moon gets smaller, though the day seems longer, though slept through. I will sit and wonder, until the darkness fades, the silver turns molten; the freckles turn pure blue, the true colors of his natural shyness. Just then, the day seemed like the beach, a seas exit or entrance.    

There was a beauty in the ever foreseen sorrows of the future. Where the time became a fortune telling bell that, even the dulled mind, could hear and know where the tune was going. So as far as the ghastly face of death was concerned, we thought she was a beauty, a dancer at the ball, where infinity, god, oblivion, and me where fixed upon her her, as she was the spitting image of the beach, a seas exit or an entrance.

Simple words wrapped around stagnant constitutions
written for half *** revolution.
There will be no more Zach and Sineigh.
No more Signature graveyards.
No more Percocet 30.
A real lose, lose.
Shame in what I miss most.

Square one.
Basic education
on top
middle class foundation.
Teased by a girl
eating off China.
Rules enforced
by the best case scenario.

The stylus is more potent than the dirk they say
You don't fail to make a mark even when picked up by a dilettante everyday
Esoteric idioms your masters make you write
While the poignant sentences you write come only late in the night
Someday you are in the hands of the who's who of the town
The other days you spend in the hands of a clown

You come clad in plastic,platinum,silver and gold
With different coloured lifelines-blue,black,red,green and pink
And a plethora of stories you keep clandestine and untold
A travesty you make of the fools and to the prudent you make think
With every word you write, you pant for breath
And when your heart stops beating, they mark it as your death(end of a refill)

You can be cryptic, there's no one stopping
You can be acerbic even with beauty on the outside(the beauty of the letters)
From the Treaty of Versailles to the varied pompous constitutions penned, you've always left me shocking
Blessed be the hands that cradle you and take the ride(ride of the writing)
You take them through the best roller-coaster journey of words
Bringing out the inexplicable happiness be it just the lyre of the birds

A predilection i have for you, for you engender the best in me
I know I'd always have you in the middle of a dark chilled night come what may be
Its you whom i turn to with my querulous platitudes
And you furnish me the answers with a benevolent smile and gratitude
Its you who defines me, for i am nothing but an amorphous mould
Still learning when to be bold and when to feel cold.

The United States of America has never been a democracy. Our Constitution, drafted and ratified in 1787, legalized slavery in all 13 nascent States. Eight of our presidents were slaveholders, including George Washington and Thomas Jefferson, who owned more the 600 slaves. Though the 13th Amendment legally abolished slavery in 1865, the KKK , founded also in 1865, began to flourish in the Deep South when U. S. troops were recalled in 1877. White Supremacists used a vicious range of deterrents to keep Blacks from voting:  Deep South State constitutions and laws;  poll taxes;  literacy tests;  the "grandfather clause";  and outright intimidation, including lynchings that occurred at their peak from 1890 to 1920. Today, Trump supporters have swept through almost all State legislatures "legalizing" myriad ways to keep minorities from voting, as well as other ways to invalidate their votes. In addition to brutalizing Blacks throughout our nation's history, we must not forget the genocide perpetrated by our government against indigenous peoples who had populated the continent for millennia, culminating between 1860 and 1890 with the coup de grace of Wounded Knee. "Manifest Destiny" was not democracy. It was manifest inhumanity.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS

I've got a lot on my mind so can I say my piece?
then I can just kiss my teeth
now I've made my peace
I've got a job, I'm the police;
self righteous justice
If killing time ain't good enough
then well, just **** this

I'm ******* now,
I cook a hand grenade
throw it to a crowd, explosive;
that's my sound
my life is darkness;
like in a shroud
am I too loud for your ears to handle?
Well then lets take a gamble
get the ******* my cloud
I'm shoutin' proud from here to Blackpool

Let's have a party
yeah that's cool, so where's the pedestal?
I'm like a statue frozen in motion
action shot, I'm not posin'
but I'm proposin' if we cut the ****
and get them flows in
and everyone is bouncin'
then we can turn this house in
Inside out,
it's about,
the beat,
the love,
the flow,
that steals,
the show,
if you don't know what I've been told
then I suggest you let it go

"Where is my invite? I think i missed it"
well despite the fright
you may have given yourself
I didn't send one girl, just look at yourself
In this life it's all about perfection
****** protection
affection and nation wide elections

I like to fly so high
in the sky and I do it with pride
I'm not a drugs kind of guy but
happiness is synthesized and if that's a crime
then I guess I'm crooked!
but I'm always lookin' for a way out
so if you won't let me in then I stay out
I feel I'm down and I'm definitely out,
so I guess I should pray now

Then god tells me
life is predicaments and resolutions
promoting solutions and twisting
the truth in constitutions
changing pace in relations
and pretending we never took welfare
out of the equation

Used to be a dream
Streets paved of gold
The fire of liberty
Land of opportunity
Used to be a dream
But scheme on scheme
Of madmen's design
Sticking to a party line

I watched that fire
As a child I watched that fire dying
Smouldering embers and ashes
From sea to shining sea

Used to be a dream
But changing constitutions
Loopholes for the wealthy
Wage slaves and poverty
Used to be a dream
When an eagle flying
Symbolized what could be good
In the world

I watched that eagle
As I child I watched that eagle starving
From amber waves of grain
To purple mountains majesty

Used to be a dream
But we were all asleep
And when we woke up
We found america

Divided and failing

man emerges from this
darksome ether.
  this: time suspended
  in the ballpark, without fetters.

i have dreamt the truth
  of my vicarious call.
is it not that my measures secure
   these constitutions
      of ineffable fruitions?

it is likened to our heartland's
     acrimonies: dreaming in the
  misty vale of sleep is the word
     and its insistent void,
  riddled by amorous intent
     of barefaced realisms.
  there is nothing here but
  subservience of fantasy's    burlesque fanfare
    on broad vaudeville.

man sinks into the bottom
  of this, rests in the
soft hands of this earth-woven
word - a poem's importunate nativity where all supremacies
     are born ceaselessly!

It always looks better on paper

Drug mules
You'll be carrying a huge amount of drugs from point A to point B and then you'll get paid handsomely after they're done renting out space in your *******

You need not be worried
You need not see this
You need not be here
Get back to your horticultural ventures

Cavities in your bicuspids
They are oblong and plentiful
In terms of shapes and numbers
Moreover, the riddles are almost always to some degree atomic

But more often than not the outgoing ones refuse to falter
When asked to recite the table of elements
Or give a heartwarming speech about social ecology

Yet the quiet ones are known to surprise us
Some can give you the recipe for the best hossenfeffer you'll ever have
Some can make a record that is demanded to be put on constant replay
Or have a deep conversation with a lifelong grouch and have roaring fit of laughter as an outcome

Then there are the horses who are lead to water but die of thirst
Who are baffled with the question, "what is the difference between Taylor ham, pork roll and Canadian bacon?
And can never figure out the complex algorithms
For they are cursed with weak constitutions

"This is just another poem"
My sentiments exactly

Don't let me be
acquaintance ancestry.
Celestial bodies deny me peace,
hidden behind moonlight white sheets and
skyscraper evidence markers.
But I, advice malnourished, recede
among the intangible tangents
of lesser-used thoughts.
I let the shadows take me because
maybe they should have a long time ago
and I was too scared to let them out of my veins,
let the crack from my neck
leak the demons and my trust.
Don't let me be
predisposed possibility,
never so whole as seraphs and satanists,
guided by singularity.
My lives were revolutions,
made up of weaker constitutions
encapsulated, a prescription purpose
that guides me past milligram monument men
braver than I was, but already marble ghosts.
Let me be the helpful dream,
the stitcher of seams;
it seems the tie is torn too much,
the threads thrown astray like things lost in space,
too tangled to discern the strongest way to
reinforce the conclusion of my weakness.
Let me be the used-to-be,
the once-was boy who could never see.
Blindness is a condition I accept willingly,
and deafness with it, and warmth's retreat.
Let me be cold, forgotten gold
buried beneath a tombstone treasure map.
Let me go.

He awoke with a start, the weight of a restless night leaving him suddenly as it was the stench that hit him first. He shot up in bed, still covered from the sweat of his nightmares, and began dry heaving. The thick odor assaulted his senses, causing his eyes to water and his nose to snot. It smelled of decay and death. The strong sickly sweet scent of lilac mixed in as though to try and perfume the foul smell.
It was too much and he vomited onto his dusty wooden floor. Wild fear then took him. He knew what this was and had smelled it before many times. **** the Gods, he thought, He never thought it would be him. He stumbled out of bed and half-ran, half-fell through his small shack. His constitutions wavering, he threw open the heavy pine door and looked to his feet. He found that could not scream as fear tightened around his throat and his blood ran as cold as the Nordic Winds.
The black charred bones of an infant elk lie at his door step. Frayed and rotting twine held the thing together haphazardly and he could feel the Evil surging from the remains.
He had been Chosen.  
He grabbed at the banister, white knuckling the railing, and bent over double once again purging himself out of fear.
With bleary eyes he stared down the road at the plot of scorched earth that marked the remains of the last house that found The Mark at it's door..
This would be his last days on this Plain as a man

He sat next to the Mark and sobbed. Great tears rolled down his face as he thought of all he was about to leave behind. As the Day broke he watched his last sunrise. He muttered his thanks to The Gods, however grim the morning was, it was glorious sight. Just the other day the sun had been met with Falls overcast skies, promising evening storms. Today, however, the sun broke through great white clouds. Brilliant rays of light charging the sky with its intense morning golds and blues.
The light stretched across the forest town of Wilds Watch. Creeping up the dirt roads and casting long shadows from the various wooden and clay structures. Morning dew began to steam from the thatch roofs and tall grasses leaving a gentle fog on the town. The forest in the distant seemed more ominous than ever.
As he thought about the horrors he would soon face doors began to open as the suns light reached out and through the windows of the weathered houses. The people knew what this morning brought. "It" had come ti claim another sacrifice. The unspeakable horror only took strong, youthful men, the rumor being that It needed them to add to It's unholy keep as The Walking Dead. They wore masks with lemon grass, flowers and pine needles stuffed inside and poking through the edges. The unholy stench of The Mark crept far from his house and would linger into the sobering weeks to come.
Their eyes held pity and sorrow. He knew they also breathed a sigh of relief from the scented masks as they had avoided It's Mark for another year.
"So, I am doomed to join the Walking Dead." he thought aloud with spiteful and ragged breath.

Don't let me be
acquaintance ancestry.
Celestial bodies deny me peace,
your sensitivities shielded by a moonlight sheet,
picketed by skyscraper evidence markers.
They died from lust for light, broken trust and fright.
I'm looking for the inevitable morgue.
I, malnourished of day,
recede among the intangible tangents
of lesser-used thoughts.
I let the shadows take me because...
they should have a long time ago
and I was too scared to let them out of my veins,
let the abstract crack on my neck
leak demons and my trust.
Don't let me be
predetermined possibility,
never so whole as seraphs and satanists,
guided by singularity.
My lives were revolutions,
guided by weaker constitutions
encapsulating a prescription purpose
that tours me past milligram monument men,
marble ghosts braver than I am.
Let me be the helpful dream,
the stitcher of seams;
it seems the tie is torn too much,
the threads too thrown astray,
too tangled to discern the strongest chain,
the strongest way to reinforce
the conclusion of my weakness.
Let me be the used-to-be,
the once-was boy who could never see.
Blindness is a condition I accept willingly,
and deafness with it, and old warmth's retreat.
Let me be cold, forgotten gold,
less a frozen dawn than a synapse half-way gone
buried down beneath a tombstone treasure map
with an epitaph two decades long and footnote dates.
I never liked dates, smoke breaks, moments that
persist longer than they should,
like I have.

I used to ask myself?
Is Lucifer the bad guy
When his name just means
Illuminated like the third eye
O my
Did he really just say that?
Yeah but God don't have my back
God is indoctrinated from dogma
I'm spittin flames hotta than lava
Standing next to the father
Gold breasted iron plates
Yeah gotta celebrate mentally
Spiritually my birth happened accidentally
Born into world of confusion
Say God is love bit all I see
Is wicked constitutions prostitution
Everywhere we getting hoed out
Got the government rapping us
Every time we shout
Nobody wants peace really want War as ******* soar
Use the eagle for peace
But the eagle never has peace
Tucked away wisdom then have the nerve
To Sat God is everywhere
How? Wen I'm seeing death everywhere
Not one script where Satan's
Holding oppression in there
They say he was the fall of man
Because man began
To understand life and creation
Change your station
Cuz I ain't backing down
This is a sho ground temples of hidden doom
Shield for the wombs
People don't even wanna wake up
To the facts that the bible is our main rival
They preach holiness but the mainsones that's fit for survival
**** td jakes Joel osteens fake *** creflo
Here's a gun for ya temple
Spirits in awe cuz of what I saw
And say what message telepathically lay
In my subconscious sick of nonsense
I'm begging for mercy
Like Percy
til the day I die ill remain in knowledge never thirsty

Though I lead a new tomorrow
With a pioneer's resolve
I find that Someday I still follow
In its footsteps of the settler's
Beaten paths of sorrow

Tread upon by kings of old
Who tear my flag to tatters
As they colonize my soul
Then rip my constitutions up  
In favor fortunes stoled

Profiting from trails we blaze
Through fields of labor slaves
Which begs the question arms to raise
And manifests my destiny
In fifty shades of Shay's

No more to pave the streets I've seen
All walks of life share brave and free
Dead-ended by the God machine
Whose forked-road tongues divide these signs
To boulevards of broken dreams

Yes this is where we will declare
The carnage of the despot's sword
To common man's, can not compare
The power of the people's word
Is any tyrant's worst nightmare

So wall us up in torture cells
You can't contain our minds  
Abort the right to wedding bells
Love, like truth, can not be killed
By pockets full of shells

Unloaded in a hail of liar
Mass control of information
Molotov cocktails conspire
To stockpile human lives
To serve the evil empire

As storm troopers deployed
To combat the invasion
Of the aliens employed
By the Death Star super weapons
That will leave all worlds destroyed

When the facts are sold as fictions
That the junkies overdose on
As they pay for these afflictions
No one covers in this system
They just feed zombie addictions

That divide us into factions
In this race of arming fear and hate
With masterful distractions
Misconstruing civil wars
With patriotic actions

a hawk without feathers,
skin, hollow bones,
its avianness severed by the wickedness it knows,
it sits upon a house,
the house that's always stood,

(by the cave with the painted walls,
after the massacre
     of the neanderthals;
by the agora, where the voting took place,
     in sight of which they signed
     constitutions
     and other contracts in black typeface;
by the workplace;
by the banks;
downtown,
     between the metal-glass towers,
     footpath from it
     to the corridors of power)

out of time, it is: a Wormwood,
where men gather to unaffix themselves from the good.
the hawk has eyes of malice,
it watches as you come to the door,
inside, it smells of money, might and phosphor
us.

it is awfully romantic
to imagine that we do not hold yesterday's values in our back pockets
to think we never held these values to someone else's temple
the barrels of our guns do not light every limb of our family trees
we are lying
if we tell you our ancestors wanted the white house to be home to a brown boy
rage no longer pumps through our veins but it sneaks through the holes in our understanding, we are still responsible
and it is awfully romantic
that we sing songs of freedom from oppression in spite of the fear of the woman walking down the sidewalk in the middle of the day
leave love notes in our constitutions after the letters "P.S."
whisper promises to minorities that things will be better then strike them down declaring we've done enough
it's not enough
it is awfully romantic
to believe none of this is relevant anymore
the only relevance of gender is what pronouns to use
the only relevance of skin is our lover's wrapped up in ours
but we are not a love story
even when we want to be
this is not a love letter
it is an apology

You will be held accountable
For fake news you've bestowed  
Upon my constitutions
With your lies as they corrode
My nuclear reactor core
Setting to explode
Weathering the calm before
The patience you erode
Away my solar-power
To an anger overload

You're the virus in the system
A division by addition
Of malignant cancer schism
All I want is full remission
From the ******* spreading sickness
Of your drama drug addiction
Tie your mood-swing disposition
To a noose of no ambition
Just a greenhouse gas emission
To the lungs of coexistence

You're pathetically vindictive
You're an infantile leech
On the happiness of others
Since you're crying underneath
For who could ever truly love
A fat and ugly beast
Or teach them right from wrong
Or just admitting it at least
And now the clock strikes judgment
And it's time you were impeached

Revolution does not begin in silence,
but with whispers–
a steady rise in tempo,

a cacophony of intent, leading to anarchy.
She says I’m inciting chaos
and my coworkers shun me in aftermath

because I dared question a flaw– a fault–
a crack in the earth
where mountains rise and sidewalks tremble.

I’m inciting chaos– but it was just conversation,
the kind that signs declarations, constitutions
and drafts beget into militia standings–

because how dare I speak in private?
I notice discourse, and I follow,
and question designs built on theft,

braced upon effort to keep us docile.
My chaos
Pulses in my temple– but with accusal

I’ll graft it upon my knuckles, my
wrists, arms, and face.
I’ll be the hurricane they sought to quell–

the fire, the rage burning in hearts,
minds, and whispers. I’ll light
that match, and watch their worlds burn.

I can be that whisper.
I can be that chaos.

So you think yourself a prince alight with fire,
dynamic in your expression of unlimited creation?
But what of the fear and obstacles rising perpetually
because of your unskillful means and application?
What if your timing is off by a moment
and impatience leads to more than one undoing?
Recognize that you're uneasy. How you long to be free from
unfairly mounting regrets or mourning!
Your current approach relies too much on will-power alone;
find another way, as will-power alone is not enough.
Undam the waters of life; go deep within and seek the light.
The world is beckoning, waiting patiently for you to realize
that you are never not becoming; you will always be renewed.
Seek the Truth, without clinging to the sensation of discovering truth.
Seek the Love, without clinging to the sensation of realizing that love.
Seek the Joy, without confusing intensity for a thing's reality.

You wish for changes and emotional revolutions,
to cast aside old worn-out thoughts and constitutions.
You wish to master your psychological well-being,
tactfully blending your intelligence and imagination.
But what about the path you thought you were still on?
Do you fear you may collapse during essential maturation?
Know that you don't know where your going.
You are out of touch with reality -- place things in proper perspective!
Don't delay the inevitable cycling of completion
if you would desire your hopes to come to fruition.
Seek stability in your home, and nurturing connections.
Learn to trust and ground your feelings in satisfaction.

The two choices stand before you; but which one will you choose?
The outer path of material unfolding is easily observed.
The inner path of contemplation is a little more reserved.
You can search for it, ask for it, or even knock right on the door,
but you can never open the door, through excessive use of force.
If you sit patiently, showing all the virtue that you've practiced --
if you have the courage to dare to ask the difficult questions;
if you have the will to seek the uncomfortable revelations;
if you have the persistence to remain silent long enough to know --
then the door will open for you, without the slightest hesitation.